Beautiful Trauma
by AppleCiderr
Summary: During a string of grizzly murders with several possible causes, Sherlock finds himself struggling to figure out the case. The killer watches, and adores every beautiful deduction. They love Sherlock, and everything about him. So much so that watching from afar is no longer enough.


It was the third body in a week.

A _week_.

Even for Sherlock, someone who desperately tries to keep away from boredom, felt that it was too much. What made it worse, and yet more interesting at the same time, was the bizarre ways they were being killed.

The body in front him had four- no, _five_ different fatal injuries covering her body. Signs of strangulation, blunt force trauma, third degree burns, a large laceration, and a stab wound to the heart. But what was the one that killed her?

All the bodies were like this. They had violent injuries but only one was the cause of their death. It made no sense… It was interesting, and yet frustrating. What was the motive behind it?

"Anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice broke through his thoughts. Sherlock pushed aside his questions for now, knowing that he would look into it farther himself.

He stood up, brushing off the front of his coat. "The stab wound has no inflammation, and very little blood. It was done after death. The laceration looks like it was done before death, but the blood is dry in one place more than the other, I'm guessing it was made to look worse afterward.

"The skin is rather charred, I doubt the burn would be that color if they were alive when it happened. There is no bruising or bleeding in the head wound, but there are bruises around the neck. They were killed by strangulation."

Despite all the evidence given, Donovan didn't seem satisfied. "If they were only killed by one of those injuries, why waste energy making more?" She demanded.

Sherlock huffed, already annoyed with her, but he understood her frustration. "If it was staged like a suicide, I could see why.. But they just left the body here.." He wondered aloud, blue eyes staring down at the body a little longer.

Donovan released an annoyed noise. "Great. If the freak can't figure it out, how will we?" She grumbled. Lestrade sent her a pointed look, before walking up to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his bright eyes to Lestrade. "Call me if anything happens," He bluntly stated, before rushing out the door. Lestrade debated going after him, and demanding that he not investigate on his own this time, but he knew it was a lost cause.

 _Just be careful, Sherlock._ He thought. _Something about this case… It just feels wrong._ He shook off his worried thoughts, and turned back. "Alright everyone, let's keep working," He called.

* * *

Outside of the abandoned home, Sherlock flipped open his phone, only to release a disappointed sigh. John hadn't messaged him all day, not even responding to his text about the case. It would be a lie if he claimed it didn't hurt his feelings, but that didn't mean he would admit it.

He must be at work, or out with that woman.. _Sandra? Sally? Who cares…_ It wasn't as if this was the first time John had blown him off. It did hurt, but it always did when it came to John because of how Sherlock-

"M-Mr. Holmes?" A hesitant voice called, making the brunette turn to look towards it's origination. Standing in front of the rickety old house was a tall, formidable looking officer. Sherlock recognized him instantly.

 _Charlie Ainsworth, late 20s, middle ranking officer with a strong build, he is usually very firm and loud when working but always hunkered down and nervous around me. Intimidation? Admiration?_ He guessed, before replying,"What?"

"I um… I could call a cab for you if you'd like?" He suggested,"Or, if you want, I have my car here-'

Sherlock had no patience for him in that moment. "I can find my own way, Ainsworth, I am not a toddler," He declared firmly, calculating the quickest route to the busier streets as he watched the auburn haired man lower his eyes to the floor, seeming sad with the rejection.

Just as Sherlock turned around, Charlie spoke again. "Sorry, I know you're busy and all, but someone has to say it, and the others won't," He nervously said, taking a deep breath, and looking up firmly,"Thank you for helping with the case, I don't know if we'd ever figure it out without you."

"I doubt it," Sherlock replied, unable to hide the slight pride at finally being recognized for his skills by an officer beside Lestrade. "But thank you, Charlie, have a nice day."

"You too!" Charlie called back, waving for a bit before heading into the building.

 _I guess he's not that bad._ Sherlock decided as he walked. _At least he's not calling me 'freak'._ Feeling a little better, he put his phone away, and decided to go to Angelo's. He was feeling a little peckish, after all.

* * *

He watched the detective from the window, heart fluttering with admiration. Why didn't people see it? Why must they always berate him? Nobody ever recognized his amazing genius. Not even that John Watson that followed him around.

But they knew how amazing the detective was. His deductions, all of them, were so beautiful. That was why they had to do it, kill those people and mangle their bodies. It was so much better than the ignorant questions Lestrade asked, because Sherlock could even tell when they were killed.

It was so beautiful… And yet it was all over so quickly. He wanted to be patient, and at the same time he wanted to do more. But Sherlock, with his beautiful mind, would discover who the perpetrator was easily.

 _Ugh!_ But he couldn't take it anymore! Sherlock was deducting thanks to him, but not for him. It wasn't fair, none of these unappreciative assholes deserved it.

That was when he decided it. No longer could he watch from the sidelines. Sherlock, and his brilliant mind, would belong to him.

Sherlock didn't have a choice.

* * *

 **Won't be coming home tonight, staying with Sarah. Don't wait up. - JW**

Sherlock stared at the message for a moment, not even trying to hide his displeasure. He tossed the phone onto his couch, continuing to look over his papers and pictures that were pinned above it.

He had images of the three bodies, and the locations. It reminded him of the cabby all over again. _They had no reason to be where they were, vanished out of the blue.. But the injuries… So many. Why?_

"I know they often want to get caught or be appreciated, but this seems.. Overkill," He muttered to himself. "Maybe they want to see if people can guess the cause?"

The idea seemed foolish, though, and Sherlock cast it aside. "No… They'll see it on the news anyways…" He whispered,"Either way he'll get attention."

He huffed, placing his hands together, and on the edge of his chin. It was an interesting, but difficult case. Despite the exhaustion and hunger he was feeling. The killer already created three bodies in one week, who knew how many more they could create if Sherlock didn't figure it out soon.

A sudden chiming reached his ears, causing Sherlock to jump in surprise. He turned, noticing the bright light on his phone. _A phone call? John? Lestrade?_

Instead, his blue eyes found themselves staring at an unfamiliar number. At first, he was going to deny it. But, he had new clients who often called, so he pressed the green button, and brought the phone to his ear.

Before he could even give a greeting, he heard frantic breathing. "Sherlock!" Charlie's voice frantically cried,"Thank God you answered! We need you here, now!"

Sherlock was already grabbing his coat, but wanted more information. "What's happen-" He began, but he was quickly interrupted.

"We were on patrol- but then...T-the killer! He's here! We need your help! Lestrade is chasing him, but we need your help!" He cried, and Sherlock could hear the noise of a gunshot.

The officer quickly relayed the address. "I'll be there," Sherlock firmly declared, realizing the urgency of the situation. The address wasn't far, he could make it on foot. He wouldn't dare taking a poor cab driver near the danger anyways. The young man hastily took off out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door.

He didn't even remember to leave a note.

* * *

The young man arrived to silence. The old building was half collapsed, with the door broken in half, and blood on the doorstep. He saw bullets on the ground in front of him, and knew exactly what must have happened.

Sherlock dashed to the door, pushing it open and finding himself in darkness… Except for once light. Underneath it was a bloodied, crippled, but large form of someone wearing a police uniform, a gun still held tight in their hand, and covered in blood. _Charlie?!_ He thought, ducking back and expecting an attack.

Where there was nothing, he snuck forward, quickly sliding down next to the body. "Charlie?" He whispered, his hand slowly reaching out, hands barley about to grab the limp shoulder-

Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his neck, another slamming something against his mouth. A shocked gasp escaped him, his hands instantly going up to grab at those arms. The hand against his face pressed harder, and Sherlock finally recognized the scent. _Chloroform._

His resolve grew, sending his elbow behind him as hard as he could, feeling it slam against the attacker's stomach. His contact was met with something firm, like body armor. _They came prepared, they have chloroform, they killed Charlie but not me. They want me._

The attacker responded to Sherlock's thrashing by tightening his grip around his neck, and beginning to walk backwards. The detective desperately tried to break through the muscular arms, yank his head away from the towel on his face, anything. But it was too late, his head was beginning to cloud.

With as much strength as he could, he threw his head back. There was a sick crack as it connected with something. The hands dropped, and Sherlock desperately tried to run. But the pain in his head, and the chemical invading his head sent his vision spinning. His own feet caught against one another, and he fell into the red substance in front of him.

The smell of iron invaded his nose as he clawed at the ground. Adrenaline was desperately trying to make him move, but the rest of his body had given up. I have to run, I have to get away.

As quick as they had let go, the hands were back. They threaded through Sherlock's curly locks, lifting his head the slightest bit off the air. The detective heard a soft, shaky breath, and then a deep voice that whispered,"Finally…"

Sherlock's head was slammed back onto the concrete, and everything went dark.


End file.
